


I've Finally Caught Up

by anderscones



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-21 08:44:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/898271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anderscones/pseuds/anderscones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock meet Death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've Finally Caught Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [me because i have trouble thinking of titles](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=me+because+i+have+trouble+thinking+of+titles).



                He died after him, but came to before. It was probably because Sherlock was (is?) a determined, stubborn bastard. John found himself laying in the position he left the world in. Despite how many people surrounded him in the sleek train station in the breathing world moments before, it was empting when he woke. He stood and John prodded at his stomach and chest, feeling the absence of pain and practically cried with relief.

                Being shot was not as mild as the movies make it out to be. First was the numbness, like you’d never actually been hit and were safe, mostly because the entirety of the danger was being ignored. It didn’t last long, and the euphoria was quickly over, sending constant aches and pains through your entire body as if you were being shot multiple times afterwards. Unless you have been stabbed, shot, cut deeply into without anesthetics, or anything of that nature, you cannot imagine the pain of being shot, so lucky fucking you. People who have been shot howl in pain and cry the biggest sobs, even after the metal has been removed, so the romanticism of fiction is about 99.9 percent wrong when characters lay quietly and completely still without tears or noise, save for bitten off gasps. After the pain, the realization of being hit with a bullet finally starts to sink in, and it’s _scary_. Absolutely terrifying. So, more crying. Most people tend to think they’re going to die (though not as many as you’d think), and when it appears it’s over and unsalvageable, every negative emotion comes out with the tears and desperate sobs.

                John died many times before.

                Gone for three seconds.

                Gone for five seconds.

                Gone for twenty seconds.

                Gone for twenty-one seconds.

                Gone for three minutes.

                And gone for one second every time his heart skipped a beat when he thought he’d been in actual danger of dying, which was a good part of the time. As an army man, he had many scrapes and close calls with death, but only actually met her twice: just then and when they revived him five times in Afghanistan (all of them not at once). He fell in and out of consciousness in his makeshift hospital bed, but he swears up and down that a woman was holding his hand through everything: being shot and landing in the sand, the surgery, recovery. The naturally platinum blonde, petit lady was absolutely beautiful with her soft features and even softer blue eyes. The apples of her cheeks really did look like apples when she smiled, which was every time John spared her a glance. He thought she was a nurse, assigned to him specifically, but whenever he’d ask about her, no one knew who he was talking about. John never actually talked to her, just stared and she stared back. Eventually, she stopped coming in, and it was only when he grabbed Sherlock to staunch the bleeding of his wound did he see her again, walking towards the pair of then. John gaped and gasped with exertion and surprise when she kneeled next to them and placed her hand on Sherlock’s face.

                “I’ve finally caught up to the two of you. You’ve both been keeping me busy with all the trouble you cause.” The woman said in a friendly, warm voice. He could feel his best friend shudder under him through his regular sobbing and his grip slackened when the woman removed her hand from his face. John felt his physical pain being drained from him, but the emotional pain only amplified. He realized that she was holding his blood-soaked hand and it felt eerily familiar to the other times he slipped under. He was sure that she really _was_ happy to finally have her work _actually_ finished and uninterrupted this time. John lost the will and want to be sitting upright, and slumped over accordingly, the emotional flood being too much to handle. There were many emotions that flew through his entire system. Happiness, sadness, anguish, relief. The only one missing was fear. He had been fearful the first time he’s been shot. John didn’t want to die, not when he had so much to live for. He was scared of leaving behind his home. Of course, when he returned to his home invalided, he wished like hell that he actually _did_ die. He was scared then, too, when he eyes his gun as it beckoned him. He didn’t like being scared of death, even when he wanted it.

                But it was different; he wasn’t afraid this time.

                “ _No!_ ” John jumped at the wailing behind him. Sherlock was laid on the ground, opening and closing his eyes. After that, he turned over and pounded his fists into the cold concrete, staying face down when they stopped. It was obvious he didn’t want to be here. He wanted to go back to the real world and continue what he was doing. John felt for the man. John didn’t have much to continue with Sherlock dead, and he wondered if it was selfish to be grateful that they both had been killed at the same time.

                “Sh-“

                “There was so much to do, so much to discover, John. I only cracked a point of one percent of it all,” Sherlock muttered into the floor with a hoarse voice. It sounded like he was crying, which should have alarmed John, but it didn’t; he knew dying took a lot out of a person. He walked over and sat not to the man he followed all around London (and sometimes farther), drawing his knees up so he could lay his crossed arms on top. Sherlock turned over onto his back and stared at the grey skylight above the two of them. “What now? What is there to do here?”

                “You don’t stay here,” a kind voice told them. John turned to see the beautiful woman. “I mean, I suppose you could, but it’s quite… _boring_ here,” She stopped and considered the men. “You’ll make a choice.”

                “On?” Sherlock asked curiously.

                “Where you want to go. There’s heaven or hell, of course. Lucky for you two, heaven is actually an option, unlike the man Lestrade shot moments ago in vengeance for you both. Greg claims he felt threatened by him, but I’m sure you know better.” The woman smiled at the pair. “Or you could rejoin the living. They wouldn’t notice you much, though. You’d be completely invisible to them. There’s also the option of purgatory. Not much fun, like here. Then, because between the two of you, thousands of lives have been saved and wrongs set right, there are plenty of people putting good words in, both living and dead. You can become angels.”

                Sherlock snorted. “To do God’s dirty work, I’m assuming?”

                “To do as you please, actually. You wouldn’t be staying in heaven like the rest of them; you’d be _guardian_ angels, watching over and helping people of your choosing. John, you had one.” Death smiled again, waiting. When he simply stared back, she answered the unasked question. “It was me. You were dying and I was supposed to take you, but I decided against it. The time after the fourth, though, I contemplated. You were beginning to recover and your body randomly started to shut down. I wondered if you’d actually stay alive if I saved you for a fifth time. Half way across the world, I was needed for an immediate decision on a one Sherlock Holmes,” she tutted.  “Reckless man. He’d given me just as many problems, what with all the overdoses. I’m sure you remember me, Sherlock?”

                Sherlock sniffed. John turned to look at him, and he was sitting up and almost mirroring John.

                “Yes, well, you _were_ pretty far gone. Anyway, Time told me that he was about to leave you case, John, so I just told them to keep you alive so I could persuade time to help me save the unworthy. Even at that time, people were calling me and asking that Sherlock Holmes stayed alive. That was not my decision to keep you animated for so long. I didn’t really appreciate you treating my favours as if they meant nothing. But you’re both dead now, left with no more strings to pull for the both of you to pull through, so it would have been useless to keep just one of you. The other would have died shortly thereafter by his own hand.” The two men ignored the comment and continued to listen intently. “So, what will it be? Time is always so pushy that I hurry.”

                “So, you were a human once, then?” John asked abruptly, ignoring what Death had just said. He assumed it was rude, but he was dead, and caring about being polite wasn’t exactly high on his list.

                The woman patiently answered. “I was Mary Morstan once. Fate lined me up with a nice young man, but Death before me came too early, and I never personally met him. He was charming whenever I’d watch over him. Saved his life a few times as well. But now is not the time to discuss that. What are your decisions?”

                John didn’t have to think twice before he answered confidently. “Guardian angel sounds interesting, actually.” She turned to Sherlock, who made a face and stared at the skylight again.

                “Angels have the most freedom in their choices?” Death nodded. “Then I’d like that as well.”

                She smiled and disappeared in a flurry of ash. The room began to colour itself and gain more occupants, though not as many as when they first left. Their bodies were taped off, and it was almost unnerving. Sherlock and John stood, watching as a forensics team huddled over their corpses and took down information. Lestrade wasn’t far, only questioning a few witnesses with all of the world’s dread on his face. The two appeared to be invisible to the living, though refused to walk through or too close to the angels, as if they had opposing magnetics fields.

                “I suppose we should see if Lestrade is alright?” John suggested.

                “Yes, I suppose so.”


End file.
